


"A Small Family Crisis"

by DrGaybelGideon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abel and Will are mentioned, Fluff, yes you read that correctly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrGaybelGideon/pseuds/DrGaybelGideon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frederick tries to come up with a good way to say 'I'm staying off work today to look after a very small kitten I found in my car bonnet.' without being sacked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YunaFire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YunaFire/gifts).



> This was originally a 'distraction from exams' one shot on my Tumblr, but I got persuaded to put it on here too! http://drgaybelgideon.tumblr.com/post/117190124652/a-family-crisis

Frederick’s not a morning person. Never has been.  
Unfortunately today, even three consecutive shots of espresso can’t force him to become one, and there’s not time for a fourth before he has to limp to his car- he’s budgeted himself an extra half an hour to get down his drive in case of ice.  
Stepping outside, he congratulates himself on his paranoia. The usual red of his jaguar’s paled, covered in a good four inches of snow that couldn’t possibly have fallen last night, only in Baltimore, and there are worrying translucent patches of ice like landmines in his path.  
If only navigating this death-trap was his biggest concern. It’s a full day today, playing verbal chess with Will Graham and trying to stop Abel Gideon’s words cutting him any more deeply than his scalpel had, his scar’s hurting today, cold or nervousness, and the thought of trying to counsel Miggs afterwards is almost horrifying enough to make him consider a day off, and-  
If that wasn’t enough, his car’s bonnet sounds odd.  
Frederick curses. The cold’s almost as traumatic to a vintage car as it is to his fingertips, which are slightly blue as he rolls up his sleeves.

The engine squeaks.

He can feel the frown spread across his face. His car’s made all sorts of unearthly and traumatic noises before, but it’s never sounded like that.  
For a truly ridiculous moment as he lifts up the bonnet, he’s convinced of the possibility that the radiator’s managed to produce a hairball, and squints at it for a length of time he’s frankly embarrased by. It moves.  
Frederick startles backward, stumbling on a tiny patch of ice and feeling his back hit cold snow as a high pitched noise rises from the bonnet. It’s a cat, he deciphers the noise, a ridiculous furred thing that’s decided- of all the inconvenient real estate- to make a home in his engine.  
“Shoo.” He scowls, placing his cane firmly in the snow and using it as leverage to raise himself to his feet, body far less damaged by the fall than his pride. “Shoo!” The cat… kitten, he realises after a moment, and a tiny one at that, responds with another mewl, wriggling back into itself at the cold air. “I am late for work. I do not have the time or patience for this.” He’s going. He’ll change into the dry pair of clothes in one of his office drawers when he gets there. It responds to his protests by turning its back on him and presenting its backside as it curls a little further into the radiator for warmth, reminding him of yet another defiant irritation he’ll be meeting this afternoon- “Shoo! Get out of here or I swear, I will bodily remove you!”  
It’s an empty threat. The animal’s wild and fragile and probably rabid. Frederick’s not explaining a hand bite to his secretary. “Please. I have things to-” He’s talking to a cat. No. That’s the first sign of insanity. It sneezes, a full bodied spasm that dislodges it from the gaps in the car’s radiator, and Frederick seizes his chance, grabbing its small body in one hand and triumphantly holding his nemesis up to his face, silently challenging it to scratch him for reasons he can’t understand.

It sneezes at him instead, another full bodied jerk that almost horrifyingly sends it falling out of his hands and the five feet from his arms to the floor. He clutches a little tighter in response, feeling its body tremble under his hands.  
It’s cold.  
The thought makes his throat constrict oddly. It’s not scared of him- it should be- it’s just happy something twenty times its size is warm enough to provide a little heat as it curls into his hands. He shouldn’t. This is a ridiculous idea, he’s not an animal person. He should throw it at Will Graham in therapy as a bribe, he’s not- he’s not responsible enough to take care of another living creature.  
But he can't exactly put it back.

His decision’s made for him as liquid warmth slowly soaks his down his sleeves, a warmer and more horrific contrast to the snow that’s melting down his back. It’s relaxed enough to piss on him, and he’s not going to work smelling like that, so he sighs, debating what to tell his secretary and whether or not to call the little shit Gideon as he carefully trudges back to the house.


	2. Chapter 2

Frederick's decision to take in a newborn kitten as a first time pet- a temporary pet, he'll find a shelter for it soon, he swears- moves from the category of 'bad idea' to 'attempting coercive therapy on an already psychotic patient' in terms of poor life choices by the time he scans the second webpage of results for _'_ **caring for abandoned cat** '. It's curled up in the inside pocket of his coat, three layers of undershirt, shirt and a thick check blazer acting as a barrier between the soft flesh of his chest and the claws he imagines it'll gouge him with if it changes his mind about lying docile. This safety conscious decision appears to be a mutually beneficial one: an article he scans orders him  to regulate the tiny thing's body temperature in case of hypothermia or death.  
It's not dead. It's just sleeping, he nervously assures himself, gently prodding the little black and brown ball of fur until it lets out a weak mewl.  
It- he? She?- is alive. That's good, but to make sure it stays that way, he turns the thermostat in the kitchen up high. His boiler, only ever used at lower temperatures delights at the challenge and flickers to life almost instantly. He's going to roast.

His next task, according to an article, somberly but motivationally entitled 'How To Save an Abandoned Kitten' is to set up a bed for it. They recommend something small, comfy and cozy that he can fill with towels and bags of warm rice. A lovely idea. However, Frederick happens to like his towels, and he's paid a little too much for them to be sacrificed and wet on like the shirt he'll wash once he's finished- his beautiful white shirt, which was new and a slightly smaller size than normal- so he settles on  filling a worn out Armani shoe box with towels he uses on the rare occasions he dries dishes. His pocket mewls with protest when he bends down, and sticks tiny white claws stuck through the lining before his appalled eyes.  
"No!" The kitten ignores his warning, tugging the fabric to retract them as its world turns the right way up and clicking the satin of the jacket's lining. Anger hurries his process after that, pressing towels down into the shoe box with one hand as the other pulls the little squirming body out from his pocket to hold it up to his eye level.  
It's a very pretty cat, the thought strikes him annoyingly, pure-bred and sleek with startlingly blue eyes that lock onto his as its small paws kick. "You. Are. Insufferable." And tiny, around half the size of the box when he eventually breaks their stare and puts it down. Frederick can feel a frankly disgusting amount of sweat pooling on his brow, so after checking to see the thing isn't visibly shivering, he decides to pass on giving it a heated bag of rice as a bedfellow.  
  
It's receiving the low quality bedding exactly as poorly as imagined when he comes back down after his shower and quick change of clothes, mauling and biting and food!- of course!- is the next need he'll need to fulfill.  
Frederick's never fed an animal before. Wonders somewhat warily about the possibility of teeth- a train of thought that Will's recent revalation about the Chesapeake Ripper makes him shiver a little at in spite of temperature- and the article, his gospel and teacher hasn't come up with any ways of calming his fears on the bitten fingers front.  
"Stay there." He warns, irritably reminding himself that it's not a dog as he reopens his laptop. He needs to stop talking to it, it can't understand him. Or if it can, it's smart enough to do the opposite of what he says. It climbs out over the top of the container before his eyes, almost elegantly slithering forward on its front paws before stomping its hind legs down behind it. "Mew!" Frederick startles. Its mouth's huge, almost a third of its tiny head when it opens- the other two thirds being eyes, of course- and it's strangely-  
  
It's not adorable. It's an opportunist, all wild animals that decide to subjugate themselves in the hope of a lazy easy lifestyle are. Frederick ignores the hypocrisy he can feel digging into him along with his belt as he attempts to figure out what it looks like it wants from him. Food, probably. He ignores it, turning back to his laptop to find the details of what he needs to feed it. "Mew!"  
"What?" He's talking to the cat again. Kicks himself for it.  
"Mew!" It replies, definitely replies to him, maintaining eye contact as it squeaks.  
"I-" Don't speak cat. Shouldn't try. He turns back to his laptop, staring with an irritating blankness at the webpage in front of him as he feels its stare burn into the side of his face. "I will feed you when I know what's safe for you to eat!"  
His final attempt to rise above its presence fails after a particularly loud and irritating squeak and he grumbles, picking it up and holding it in both hands. It relaxes there again and Frederick reminds himself that it's not being deliberately annoying. It's just not house trained yet. Yet? It might be its first night indoors.  
That's completely irrational, he scowls to himself as he puts it down beside him, and it curls into itself on the couch. It fits more or less in the palm of his hand so it's definitely too small to hunt and rationally would have frozen or starved to death if it had been out there longer than a few days. Where could it have come from?  
More importantly, when did it hit 1AM?  
  
Frederick sighs. The net only offers feeding advice based on the cat's age, and as he doesn't know how old it is- the blue eyes could be a trait of its breed rather than an indicator of how many weeks it is for all he knows- he improvises, filling a shallow bowl of water on the floor and some tinned chicken he can't digest any more down next to it, then makes sure there aren't any items that look obviously maulable as he lifts himself off the sofa and makes his way over to the door.  
It follows.  
Of course it follows. He could have sworn it was asleep. It's not coming upstairs with him, not after the way it clicked his jacket earlier. However exhaustion seems to have crept up on him, and suddenly it's too much effort to slam the door in its face, so instead he lets it pass into the corridor, head and tail high like it owns the floor it walks on. Amusement twists the corner of his mouth in spite of his mind's protests. His mind protests against him bending down and stroking the thing's soft head for the first time as well- correctly, because pain splits his stomach as he dips- but it doesn't seem fair to just lock it downstairs overnight without comforting it somehow. It nuzzles a little, pushing its head into his curled fingers, and the unexpected surge of emotion that motivated him to take it in in the first place stabs him just left of his scar again. It mewls again, small and almost confused sounding- is he projecting his own bewilderment on it?- as the opaque door stops him meeting its huge, alert eyes.  
  
See. It would have kept him awake anyway. He'll take it upstairs tomorrow if he gets through tonight. He's forgotten to take his Zopiclone, he realises with a groan, too distracted by the nuisance downstairs- he will take it to a shelter, he assures himself, it's damaging his precious sleep pattern already- and if he takes it now he'll sleep in and be at least two hours late tomorrow.  
Tomorrow whispers threats at him as he lies there, so he determinedly goes out of focus, worrying about the hairball of destruction that could be breaking his plates or mauling his sofa at this very moment, it's a disobedient destructive thing but it's not a bad cat can concepts of good and evil be applied to   
_Red. Red and sore and hands under his ribcage. No. No no. You're not the Ripper, don't do this, it's a good thing he can't feel because he can imagine this hurts_  
It's a dream, he knows it and doesn't know it, the same horrible claustophobic spiders web that has trapped him for weeks  
_More red. Basket. "Holding a few things." Freddie's hair's red too, he can't look at her, can't look anywhere_  
It shouldn't still be this bad, it's warm he's in one piece at home not there  
_It's getting hard to breathe, maybe his lungs are gone too no_  
  
Frederick's entire body jerks up to a startled sitting position as something crashes, loud and terrifying from downstairs. For a few moment it's him, the Ripper but Abel's not the Ripper and the Ripper never leaves evidence at crime scenes or breaks in so-  
  
  
That little shit.  
It must have gone for the vase, a family heirloom and the only breakable thing in the hallway. His mother will have his head for this, it was a graduation present, tearfully presented as his face was kissed.  
  
He's always hated that vase.  
He laughs, sharp and wrecked in the darkness. It's 4AM. He can only sleep for two more hours, not enough of a gap for him to drift into REM and back into hell.  
He doesn't sleep, letting his body rest whilst his mind drifts between patients and hairballs and broken china, then coffee and a solemn vow to give the little thing its entire negligible body weight in milk as he staggers upright to silence his screaming alarm clock at six.


End file.
